Gray November
by silenced eyes
Summary: The way Ken deals with the death of his father is different from how everyone else expects him to. Especially this gray November, when the line between right and wrong is so blurred...*implied Schu x Ken*


Disclaimer: Not mine. =P Neither anime, or song.   
  
Author: Akiri   
  
Warnings: Oddness...=] Maybe a little dark (?), implied shonen ai, death of a minor minor character   
  
Pairing: Implied Schuldich x Ken   
  
A/N: Err....yes, so...I don't get this fic too much myself, so don't worry! You're not the only one who finds it odd! I tried to get it out by November but RL's just been so hectic lately, and I'm...I'm sorry =T You'll just have to deal with a November fic in early, early December (btw, this fic has not been proofread, in my rush to get it out, so if you see any grammatical mistakes, please email me).   
  
Dedication: To my friend Kurori-chan, who has a blog (named Gray November) that inspired the fic title!! ^__^   
---   
  
"And it's hard to hold a candle   
In the cold November rain   
We've been through this such a long long time   
Just tryin' to kill the pain..."   
  
--Guns 'n' Roses, "November Rain"   
  
--------   
  
_Light was reflected back sharply from the black surface. It was only a piece of cheap plastic, really. One whose only adornment was a white button and a red one, with a silly looking extension jutting out.   
  
Ironic, really, that that stupid piece of cheap black plastic, complete with it's red and white buttons and protruding antenna, was the only thing that could've saved him then. And it was laying there in the middle of the bare linoleum floor. Kicked out of his reach.   
  
He glared at it with his brown eyes, willing it to somehow fly conveniently into his hands. It didn't move, of course. It just laid there, taunting him.   
  
Ah...he should've known. Who was he, Hidaka Ken, to command this piece of cheap plastic to move? Had he ever done anything for the poor, much abused walkie talkie? No, of course not. He'd only caused it further injury, clumsily dropping it here and there, losing it and leaving it to rot for days on end. No, he had never done anything to benefit the black object who'd saved him countless times. Certainly, he couldn't expect gratitude. Yes, he deserved to be taunted by being able to see its alluring black skin and not being able to touch it.   
  
::Poor kitty, kitty. What interesting thoughts you have. I do believe you've finally gone off the deep end.::   
  
The nasal voice that wasn't really a voice broke through his thoughts and rang in his head. He winced, caught off hard.   
  
"You're loud."   
  
A tongue clicked in amusement. "Not nearly as loud as _your_ thoughts are. Not nearly."   
  
Ken should've attempted to turn around and glare at his captor, but he only had an insane urge to laugh. His deep contemplation on his walkie talkie was broken only to have him talk to an enemy who was minutes away from killing him, an exchange spoken in tones you would use to talk about the weather.   
  
Surely, there was something wrong with that.   
  
His reverie was once again stopped short when a broken, bleeding body was shoved inside the large room out of nowhere. And by no one, it seemed.   
  
A sharp clicking of dress shoes and the soft, quiet voice of a boy yet to reach puberty followed soon after.   
  
"I brought him here. Let's finish this quickly, Crawford is waiting in the parking lot."   
  
The smirk from the telepath could've almost been heard, and his grip on Ken's wrists tightened considerably before he pulled him roughly toward his chest. A mixture of hot breath and whispered words against Ken's ear sent unwanted shivers down his spine.   
  
"Pitiful, isn't he? Unable to move. Like a bug writhing helplessly under a boy's finger as it's held down and stabbed over and over again with a pen tip...Quite like the situation you're in. Ah, well, you know what they say, kitten. Like father like son," a cruel grin seeped into his voice.   
  
Ken's head jerked, and words were spat out in anger and impatience, "What are you-"   
  
"The Nakama Drills Corporation, ring a bell? It's pretty famous. Known for its low prices and reliability. Ah, who would have thought...that the warehouse of this dependable company was actually used to store narcotics? Simply unthinkable, ja? Now, what would happen if such a secret leaked out, hmm?"   
  
Ken didn't know if he was expected to answer, since there was a pause in Schuldich's seemingly meaningless speech. Either way, he was obviously taunting him, delaying his obviously inevitable death and slowly driving Ken insane in the process. "What are you trying to get at, Schwarz?!"   
  
"A group of kittens who feels the need to rid the world of impurities find out, of course," the redhead continued, as if Ken hadn't spoken. "They mindlessly follow their orders to eliminate this poor company. Ah-now, here's the conflict of the story. The person who commands another group of assassins, let's call him Takatori for now, has made great investments in this company, and he decides that he just won't stand around and lose all the money he's invested. Now, this other assassin group, who like to call themselves 'Schwarz', are called in to stop the kittens. Listen closely, kitten, here's the climax," he paused dramatically, "One member of Schwarz, the stunning redhead, decides that simply *stopping* them would be too simple. Where would the fun be, after all?   
  
"He decides to do some research, this redhead, and what do you think he finds, kitten?" The German once again paused, and then continued without waiting for an answer.   
  
"A worker at Nakama, with an average salary at most. Yes, a man by the name of Hidaka Shuichirou. What luck for the redhead, ja? Don't understand? Well you see, this Schwarz member, through a series of simple mind readings, had managed to pick up a few...names. So, don't you think that it's indeed very lucky for the redhead, that he comes upon the information of a worker, who happens to have the same last name as one of the kittens, Ken?   
  
"And he thinks, 'What fun it would be, to play with this worker a little. How very fun it would be...to see how the kitten's face would look when it found out.'"   
  
The bare linoleum floor was painted red that night, and the redhead did indeed get to see the kitten's face when it found out.   
  
And what fun it _was._   
  
It had turned November 1st four hours preceding.   
  
And the story had not yet ended._   
  
------   
  
He pulled his jacket tighter around himself as the frigid air seeped into places he didn't think it could reach. Winter was coming soon. And along with it would come Christmas, his birthday, snow and hot chocolate. Christmas carols and merry laughter would be the only things that inhabited the air. The shop would become more crowded as bubbly schoolgirls bought hollies and mistletoes in place of their usual lilies and roses.   
  
Joyous times would be arriving soon, but for now, they would have to wait. It was still autumn, still November. The trees were still carelessly decorated with leaves of red, green and yellow. Memories of great turkey dinners with cranberry sauce and buttered corn were still fresh on everyone's minds. Yes, it was still autumn and for them, laughter would have to wait.   
  
A biting cold breeze nipped at his already pink cheeks and nose as he gripped the rake with all ten of his numb fingers. Was it usually this cold in November?   
  
He didn't remember. In fact, he tried not to remember anything about any Novembers. The month had lost quite a bit of its old charm since last year.   
  
He didn't know how he got home after the incident. He did know, however, that the rest of Weiss hadn't known about what happened to his father until they saw the newspaper the next morning. He didn't know, either, why the press had felt the need to post an enlarged photo of his father's mutilated body on the front page, and specifically state that there had been three bullet wounds. Surely, that wasn't necessary.   
  
As expected, Omi had gasped in shock, went to comfort him and ask with concern, "Daijoubu ka, Ken-kun?". Yohji had frowned and rummaged in his pocket for a cigarette, muttering a string of curses directed at Schwarz...also to be expected. Aya had turned away, with his expression darkened, before excusing himself from the room. Also, precisely as expected. Each reaction was predictable, as if everything was simply a scene in a play, with well-rehearsed lines and expressions.   
  
And it had suddenly seemed he was out of place somehow. He knew his part, he had read the script too. He was supposed to cry now. He was supposed to sob about the injustice of it all and, curse the fact that Schwarz ever existed and take comfort in Omi's arms. Or maybe he was supposed smile a smile that didn't reach his eyes and act as if everything was alright when everyone knew he was dying inside...at the very least. Maybe he wasn't as good an actor as everybody else seemed to be...because he just couldn't do anything of the sort. He just felt...normal.   
  
He'd woken up slightly sore, but that was normal-he wasn't the most graceful of people and would trip over his own feet and walk into walls occasionally. It had been 6 AM. The time he always woke up. Then, after brushing his teeth and washing his face, he'd went for his morning jog. He came back at 6:30, just enough time to grab a cup of coffee at the coffee shop around the corner, and still manage to come back in time to open the shop. He'd set out the displays and turned the sign to say "Yes, We're Open." He'd said his good mornings to Omi and got a quiet, curt "morning" from Aya.   
  
It was all so blissfully routine-like, so why let it all be messed up because of a newspaper article? Was he the only one who found that nonsensical?   
  
So. Perhaps he should've been guilty, and he was, a little. It was his _father_ for god's sake. The same father who patted him on the back and gave him a bear hug every time he came home with an A. The same father who taught him soccer and went to every one of his games after he got into the J-league to cheer him on. The same father who loved him and sacrificed so much for him. The very same father who he loved.   
  
He should've cried, and he'd wanted to, damnit! What kind of son was he, if he wasn't even sad when his father was killed in front of him? He didn't know. But whatever it was, he was it, because after the whole perfectly rehearsed scene was acted out in front of him, he'd only shrugged and asked if Omi picked up the new shipments of red, long-stemmed roses.   
  
And then he'd left. He'd left the confused faces of Yohji and Omi with a tinkling of the bell above the door. He hadn't looked back.   
  
A year had passed since then. Perhaps the others had forgotten about it already, perhaps they hadn't. They might even still scorn him for feeling such apathy. He knew that if he were Omi, he'd feel the same way. After all, the boy grew up alone, discarded by his own father. And now, this Hidaka Ken came along, who had a loving father all his life...and didn't even care enough to cry upon his death. He must've been truly evil. Black-hearted.   
  
And perhaps he was. Ken himself wasn't too sure anymore.   
  
It seemed that he was never meant to think too hard, too much and too long. After all, every time he did, there came an interruption. This time, it came in the form of two warm arms snaking around his waist. Ken leaned back ever so slightly into the newcomer's embrace, causing locks of messy red-orange hair to spill over his shoulders.   
  
Hidaka Ken surely wouldn't do this. Not Ken, who blushed easily under teasing and tripped when there was nothing to trip over. Not Ken, who taught little kids how to play soccer and helped old ladies with their groceries.   
  
Ken would recklessly seek revenge, maybe try to take Schwarz alone in his anger. But not this. Surely, this was not Hidaka Ken.   
  
And that statement would've been right.   
  
Perhaps, it had been all forgotten. It had been all over the news, though. And it was the front page of every newspaper for weeks on end. Hidaka Ken had died in a warehouse fire. His body was never found.   
  
So, who was _he_, then?   
  
He was whom everyone called him. Siberian.   
  
They didn't know though. Aya. Yohji. Omi. None of them knew. And he let them believe what they wanted to believe.   
  
After all, nothing good would come out of them finding out. They wouldn't understand.   
  
Betrayal, they would say.   
  
Fraternizing with the enemy, they would call it.   
  
And perhaps, they would be right.   
  
But surely...surely no one would expect him to tell right from wrong. Black from white.   
  
Surely...they couldn't expect him to make the right decision, to do what's right...   
  
Not when the normally defined line between good and evil was so thin and blurred...   
  
Not when it was still autumn...   
  
Not when it was still gray November...   
  
----   
  
*cough* So...yeah...Worry not! If you don't understand this fic, you're not alone! R/r anyway! *nodnod* *scuttles off* 


End file.
